The Blue Book (9 page)

Vicki leaves him shaking.

When he remounts the stage, he is still unsteady.

This doesn't prevent him producing the blessings expected and the kind summation.

And after this the sacrament, the demonstration, the evening's entertainment is concluded and he runs.

He makes his apologies – his lover puzzled – hints that he's ill, that he'll head for the guest house and maybe an all-night chemist first and he runs.

He shakes off the stragglers, sleeve tugs, unfulfillable enquiries, scrabbling requests and emerges outside, breathless and
following
–
car keys, lying, sex
– darkish street, inadequate lamps and there she is –
lying
– there's Vicki –
sex
– the crowds about her dissipating – the audience, the congregation, the gullible going home.

But there's no sign of her bloke.

I could be wrong.

She turns right and right and right again and then a final turn before she's inclining, stalling, last-minute ducking in for the door of a car and unlocking it. She sits inside.

Lying.

But she won't drive off, not yet.

She won't.

I'll bet anything that she won't.

The man has to pass on, walk by her and keep going.

He crosses to the opposite pavement, turns left and left and left and left and there's the car, still parked – no engine, no lights, but Vicki is there in the driver's seat.

She's waiting so hard it distorts the street, makes his palms tingle.

He slows up and studies the window of the solitary available shop – it is, thank God, an estate agent's and invites consideration. He brings out a piece of paper and pretends to take notes with a pen which is still in his pocket, because he's good at pretending.

Lying.

Car keys.

Sex.

There's a sound, an impact, a door snugged shut, maybe,
maybe, he can't be sure.

Don't look.

He hears an engine start. But, if it's her car, she can't be driving away – and not alone – she can't be, he won't believe it.

I can't be wrong.

I won't be.

Oh, and there they go, they fucking do and I am not fucking wrong.

Her car pulls tenderly past him and he can peek: two inside – Vicki and her bloke – same bloke – he's beside her.

I was right. Exactly right.

Nailed it.

A hit.

The elation – it's on every surface like the shine from a new rain.

I unlocked her – I fucking read her – been pushing towards this so long that it's finally let me, given way and I'm through – I'm free – I'm mid-air and not fucking falling – I am in fucking lovely flight.

The man walks – faster and then faster – hungry for other people and deeply and tenderly struck by every face, each body that moves past him, by the opened catalogues they offer as they pass beneath the street lamps, as they modify and amplify their states, confess their natures: drunk, drunkhorny, oddanddepressedwildpain, absent, drunkscared, recklesshorny.

He understands.

He knows them.

And he knows he's a phenomenon.

Sad to think that he's almost unique, because everyone ought to be willing to let themselves see, find one another.

But everyone can't, won't, can't and I can.

And he adores it.

Jog-trotting across the late pavements: here he is and here is his species anatomised, luminous with information, secrets, wishes, fears – enough to enchant him, turn him giddy.

He can read anyone.

He is a burning man and reads by his own light.

Somehow it's after midnight when the man sneaks up and into his shoddy B&B – optional shower room across the landing, no
TV
– and wakes his love. If anyone can join him in this – and somebody must, to be alone would rob out his delight – then it will be her.

It will be her.

Shaking her shoulder and gabbling while she doesn't quite listen, is not overjoyed. No codes, no cheats, no significant numbers, just ordinary talk – the straight experience – but she won't have it, is barely interested. His lover doesn't want to hear him, is out of step.

A cool weight settles against his ribs and doesn't shift.

Eventually, they have a fight and no amends after.

Not what he expected.

Can't read everybody, then.

The lack of connection tightens his skin, pains it.

For a moment he's scared she is too far away, irretrievable.

And more scared that he's lost his new talent, that it wasn't permanently his and tonight was simply an accident, or a mirage he'll never regain or even be able to describe.

The man and his lover lie on their backs, separate and unsleeping in narrow twin beds. At last they stumble up into the morning when it arrives – no tolerance for food, no chatting – more silence on a bleak drive to their flat.

But the man believes that his lover continues to have him and hold him, whether or not they seem close – he is bound through and through her and she through him – no undoing that.

He will solve this – their first real difference of opinions – and they'll carry on – the man and the woman together, side by side.

That's what he expects.

Because he's young.

After a while, the cabin is so oppressive – and so tedious, because Derek is so unconscious – not his fault – and Beth is so tired of sitting and staring, or creeping about, or easing out on to the balcony for a dose of salt and oceanic rage – that she decides she has to slip away. Her going won't disturb him and will therefore do no harm.

Elizabeth eases out into the passageway, delicately pulls the door to and lets it lock. She's bundled her coat out with her like a foldable shame and puts it on in the corridor where it won't disturb.

I need a walk. That's a perfectly normal impulse. I've been pent up all day, one way and another – and I have this energy, spare energy, rattling energy and it ought to be burned or it'll turn septic, run to fat, some terrible something will happen.

And air – Christ I could do with some of that.

Elizabeth has the idea that a whole storm of air might do her good. She isn't exactly rushing but – side to side and occasional stammers – she is progressing rapidly. She is moving like a woman with a goal.

Which, fuck it, I am.

Fuck, fuck and fuck it.

Just let's be practical about this and head outside.

Fuck.

Elizabeth is full of shouting, but she ignores it, takes the stairs, moves on.

It isn't so late that the communal areas are deserted, but there is a sense that somewhere a party has finished and the guests are wavering home. Little cliques are ambling and in spite of the rolls and plunges underneath them, they keep hold of loose formations as they chat, conspicuously elated they've already found themselves usable friends for their trip. They can relax, go to bed with tentative schedules for bridge, or poker, the sewing circles, gossip, a stamp collectors' get-together, the before-dinner drinks.

The opportunities for Entertainment and Experience Enrichment are severely curtailed at this hour and the closed bars and emptied seating, while not forbidding,
have certainly ceased to invite. Elizabeth is relieved when she reaches an exit that leads to an external door. A warning sign states that she shouldn't be out here, that prevailing conditions may prove unsafe, then she's pushing the door and it's giving, it allows her through and on to the narrow and relatively sheltered path that circumnavigates the ship.

The Promenade Deck – that sounds likely. Maybe.

I should learn nautical terms, preoccupy myself with that.

She battles into the open and is caught by a sidelong blast that stops her and chastises.

Definitely refreshing.

A turn around the deck. That's supposed to be the bracing cure-all, isn't it . . .

Fuck.

So she heads off into the ransacking slam of it, mackintosh clattering round her legs, but no rain – just the taste of wilderness.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I'm here, though.

So this must be where I intend I should be.

Fuck.

Unless I'm just some kind of accident. Waiting to happen.

When she reaches the stern, the wind is muffled. And here it's impossible not to feel – only gently, gently – that every option but the last has been exhausted, that she's run out of ship, and meanwhile, the wide, pale tug of their wake both soothes and invites. A little camera has been positioned to observe, in case anybody succumbs to the attraction, plummets in to join the creamy, long perspective.

And here he is.

Waiting to happen.

Fuck.

Last option.

Fuck and fuck you and fuck you very much.

Here's Lockwood.

Call him Arthur.

He's leaning on the rail, arms braced wide and facing out, staring. He gives the impression the weather may be a product of his will.

Of course. That's how he'd want her to find him – looking authoritative.

Fuck.

An additional pitch in her stomach, because whatever does happen will be undiluted, no interruptions, no distractions, they will
meet.

And how long before he makes a point of giving his authority away . . . ? Smart manoeuvre, that, to snag you in.

‘You're late.' He's quiet, intending that she strain slightly to hear him. He shuts his eyes, lets the breeze press at his face, fair hair lifting, hands deep in the pockets of his long, brown overcoat. It flaps expensively. Now that everything else is moving, he can be still.

And Arthur is always beautiful when he stops to let you see.

Which is appalling, so it's important for Elizabeth to be angry. ‘I'm not late. You cued me in and then repeated it four times – and this is four hours after I left you.'

He smiles at this –
after I left you
– as if he has more delicate emotions than she does, as if every doubled meaning cuts . . .

‘And could you have said the word
meat
any more loudly? I'm neither deaf nor imbecilic. Neither is Derek.' She offers him a pause within which he does nothing to help, so she has to begin again. ‘Well, we're
meeting,
aren't we? This is what you asked for.'

He turns and catches her with a hot look. He's good at that kind of thing. ‘I'm so sorry. I was thinking four hours after we
met
. And sorry for the dreadfully unsubtle repetition. I'm out of practice.'

So he's going to be the calm, calm gentleman. Which means I have to be the unreasonable bitch.

‘You're not out of practice, Art. You're never out of practice.'

‘Try not to make that sound quite so accusatory. I'm out of practice with
you.'

‘And could you make
that
sound less accusatory . . . ?'

‘No, I don't think I could, actually.' But, somewhere, he
is
calm. Somewhere he is just glad to be looking at her and he's letting it show, leaking signs and tells like an innocent, like a civilian. ‘It's not as if I
meet
you often and it's not as if I'm
meeting
anyone else, or have been for a while – ever really do – and it wouldn't be like this if I was, so it wouldn't be practice, Beth . . .' Of course, he isn't an innocent – when he gives out tells, he means to.

‘But you can
meet
someone else if you want, Art. We're allowed other people.' Which is not the direction she should take. Their terms and conditions have never been clear-cut and shouldn't be discussed for fear of savagery and damages.

But Arthur doesn't argue, is only firm with a dash of sad. ‘Yes, I know that. I can
meet
people and you can do that, too. I know that.' He wants her to face him and sympathise, to let him in, but she angles her head to the side, says nothing and deflects him, so he continues, ‘You're
meeting
Derek. I've been watching that all day.'

‘Not
all
day.'

‘Strangely, it feels like all day.' He winces. ‘I do apologise again. I'm not allowed to say that sort of thing. I withdraw it. Consider it unsaid. Blame it on the unaccustomed protein – heavy meal, rush of blood to the head.'

Elizabeth won't feel guilty – has no plans to be anything like guilty. Nothing here is her fault.

It isn't my fault this is insane, that when we meet it's always going to be insane.

And this was his idea.

Therefore insane.

A weekend, two or three times in a year, forever and ever and ever, irremovable – that's bad enough. To keep on
meeting
,
for ever and ever and with no amen, that's fucking futile – corrosive – infuckingsane – but a
cruise
? This long together on a fucking
boat
? I should just have said no. And then Derek – Derek who is normal – he wants to come along. And how to explain why not? I'm heading out with, as far as Derek knows, my school chum Margery – the Margery that I've been
meetin
g for years, since long before I
met
Derek – so why shouldn't he come and join us? Hang the expense, he'll sort out the details – it'll be fun . . .

Fuck.

And if Art isn't
meeting
other people, that isn't my fault, either. I've never asked him to be lonely.

The gale is humming and crying through some gap, around some obstacle – it's singing and the sound is almost wonderful and she would like to listen to it and not deal with Arthur, or anything about him.

I did leave it late to tell Art – didn't want to mess him around – I never want to mess him around – but I do and he does me – and then Margery's falling on her sword – this isn't my decision, but she won't attend – Arthur provides her with an illness – dodgy heart – and we'll ignore
that
double meaning – fuck, is there a meaning he doesn't multiply, is anything ever just itself? And the lie about the heart – the heart lie – that meant we'd solved the problem – or not solved, but altered . . . me stuck on a boat with Derek who wants to propose instead of being otherwise stuck with Art who never will, or who might if I would let him, but I won't. I can't. I couldn't . . . Main point, main fucking point – my fucking question would fucking be . . .

‘Why the fuck tell me you weren't going to come on the cruise and then still fucking come?'

‘You knew I would.'

‘You said you wouldn't.'

‘But you know me.' He's smiling again – putting a melancholywounded spin on it.

‘Stop it.'

‘Stop what? I'm not doing anything. Beyond reminding you we have
met
before. Have been
meeting
for years. My body has been
meeting
your body for y—'

‘Stop it.'

‘I'm saying you know me. That's all. And anyone like me in my circumstances would be predictable. I'm not a story that's hard to tell – not for you. No surprises . . .'

He is standing closer to her. They are propping themselves against a white-painted metal wall –
bulkhead
, maybe, she isn't sure of the right word – it keeps them steady. And this desire to be steadied has drifted them in nearer to each other, tighter – that, and the hope to be warm.

And there may be nothing more to this: simple comforts required by them both and allowed to exert their influence without manipulation.

But Elizabeth has begun to feel pressured, as if she can taste him, working in. She isn't easing herself away again, it's true – although she'd partly like to – and she's aware
that Arthur chose the boisterous location, the tempestuous
cold – he could have predicted their effects. He'll always have her story worked out, too.

This being the kind of behaviour for which there's no excuse – like his rant about fucking – like saying he wouldn't be here and then being here – like being Arthur Lockwood – makes her – she feels, quite reasonably – angry and an angry woman is allowed to say, ‘You cunt.'

‘That's uncalled for.'

‘And your . . . what would you say it was? Your
oration
? Your speech in the restaurant? That was called for? And lying to me?'

‘I didn't lie.'

‘I wouldn't have come if I'd thought you'd be here.'

‘If you remember, our original arrangement was that I would be here and that's why you'd come – sorry, for the double meaning, we can act as if it didn't happen. Of course.'

And he is making her be – letting her be – furious, which she doesn't want. Any large emotion would be bad – it would let the others in.

‘I wouldn't have dragged Derek along to be—'

‘Oh, I think he's been dragged along from the start, hasn't he? Doesn't realise he's being dragged, but that's hardly putting you on the moral high ground . . .'

‘Cunt.'

‘Sorry, that's not very specific – are you just saying that I'm generally a cunt? I'm not allowed to . . .
intuit
what you mean, so you'll have to explain.' And he gives her that flinching, wearied look – consistently very effective – and he moves to face her, stands between her and the ocean, and he holds her forearms, pulls her forward so they both stand free of the wall, balance and sway with each other in the ocean's great, grey twists of thought. ‘I didn't lie, Beth. I don't lie to you.' And he lets her see he's giving up and won't fight her any more – that she can win if she wants. There will be no argument.

He'll be beaten if she wants. ‘I said that I wouldn't enjoy the trip without you, Beth. I said that I wouldn't enjoy it if you were with him. Which is true: I am not enjoying it, but why assume that I won't do something because I'll be hurt – why, of all things, assume that?'

And she would like to reach for him but can't because his hands are fastening more intently and, anyway, she shouldn't.

‘I didn't absolutely say I wouldn't be aboard, Beth . . . and
Christ
what do you want me to . . .' And he's blinking and it's hard to be sure, although not hard enough to be sure that he won't start crying.

No. Not crying. He wouldn't allow that, not when I'm with him and have to watch, when it's something too effective to ever be used. We wouldn't stoop to that.

So it would be the worst trick he could pull.

Or not a trick at all.